


Guard-Recruit

by raiyana



Series: The Reader Inserts [3]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Bigotry & Prejudice, Dwarf!Reader, F/M, Insecurity, Orcs, Smut, Tumblr: ImaginexHobbit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-04
Updated: 2017-08-04
Packaged: 2018-12-11 01:37:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11704110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiyana/pseuds/raiyana
Summary: Surface-born and self-sufficient, you thought you'd do well in Ered Luin. Join the Guard, you thought, make some friends.You were not prepared for instructor Dwalin, who seemed to single you out for special attention; inadvertently making you the least popular recruit among your peers.Today, you've finally had enough.





	1. Chapter 1

“It’s no a verra good edge, lass,” Dwalin said stonily, inspecting your effort at sharpening the axe you’ve been assigned for weapons practise today. You gave him a sunny smile, though your grey eyes remained stormy.

“Yes, Master Dwalin,” you sighed, returning to your task. It might not be a good edge, but it’s not as bad as Hargo’s for example, you wanted to complain, but you’ve long-since learned that it’s better to keep your head down if you don’t want the other recruits to punish you for it later. There’s a hierarchy in warrior-training, and you’re pretty much at the bottom. It’s not that you’re a bad fighter, really, you’re not the _best_ , of course, but who could expect to beat out Prince Fíli who has been training since birth? You’ve only been in Ered Luin for a year, after all, born on the surface to parents who are now dead and left with no proper kin to welcome you.

Joining the Guard was an attempt to make friends, to find a place here in Thorinuldûm, but you’re beginning to think it was a bad choice. Unfortunately, your Craft is music, and you can’t make a living singing in taverns these days – though you _can_ earn a nice little bonus. Staring glumly at the axe, you wonder what he’ll remark tomorrow.

Yesterday, your stance was bad – meaning Dwalin moved your left foot about a centimetre. The day before that, you were unfocused – meaning Dwalin attacked you without warning when you were headed for the water barrel and you barely got your sword up to block his axe.

Tomorrow, you’ll probably go the wrong way on patrol, or maybe you’ll forget to tie your boots, or shine your shield. There’s always _something_ with Dwalin as your instructor, and frankly, it’s beginning to wear you down. You’re well aware that the old nobles from Erebor look down on those born under the sky, but you’d spent so much time and energy on simply getting here that it seemed cowardly to give up and become a wandering tinkerer like your parents had been. Instead, you’d found a small house, no more than a bedroom and a kitchen, but it was _yours_ and it even had space for a few potted plants which meant your food was always tasty. Being surface-born wasn’t all bad, you thought, having learned many things about herbs and hunting over the years, and more than able to survive in the Wilds. It was company you’d missed, once Adad had passed to the Halls to follow your Amad, but you hadn’t really found what you’d missed here, in this place. Dwalin’s comments weren’t the worst, not really, though that wasn’t saying much.

 

“Hold your sword higher, Recruit Arnfrith,” Dwalin barked, demonstrating the proper technique by stepping behind you and moving your arms like you were a doll. Compared to his bulk, you might as well be. For a second, you wondered what Dwalin’s hugs might be like. Humiliation burned in your cheeks. The dwarf opposite you grinned, mouthing the word surfacer at you with a head-shake.

 

* * *

 

“Recruit Arnfrith, remain,” Dwalin commanded, when practice was finally over and all you wanted was to cool down and forget about this whole day. Your instructor had been relentlessly picking at your flaws, and you really didn’t want another lecture about your inadequacy right now.

“Yes, sir,” you held back the sigh, as the training grounds emptied, watching enviously as those released poured cool water from the barrel down their parched throats.

 

* * *

 

 

Later, you didn’t even remember what Dwalin had actually said, hearing nothing but the blood rushing in your ears as you stared at his frown. You did remember that you’d thrown down your sword – it belonged to the Guard – and your helmet at his feet with a snarl.

“I quit!” you’d snarled, turning on your foot and striding away from the stupid Dwarf and his stupid comments. You couldn’t see where you were going for the tears that began pressing in your eyes and you broke into a run, thinking of nothing other than getting away.

“Arnfrith!” Dwalin called behind you, but you were a much faster runner than the warrior and you’d soon left him behind. You had also left anything familiar behind along with him, of course, though you didn’t notice that until you found yourself walking straight off the edge of a small cliff, sliding down the steep slope of the riverbank. You didn’t think you’d been here before, the tall trees blocking out much of the sun’s light. Pulling off your boots, you splashed your feet in the icy mountain stream, enjoying the coolness. Convinced you were alone, you stripped off the rest of your sweaty gear, jumping into the small stream with a cry of equal parts delight and freezing. Letting the water soak the sweat from your hair and skin, you floated in the last rays of the sun. when the golden orb sunk behind the trees, you got up, wiping most of the water from your skin with a handful of grass and wringing out your hair before redressing. Your clothes were not particularly clean, but they were the only ones available. You didn’t think you’d wandered too far from town, but you might have trouble finding a path up the steep hillside.

 

* * *

 

Dwalin was worried. He’d never seen that look in her eyes before, her usual defiance replaced with complete sadness. Following her was difficult – she might not be the best swordsdwarf he’d ever met, but the lass was a champion runner. When he reached the edge of town, he caught her tracks again, following a winding path that hugged the slopes until it reached the river. Loosening his axe, Dwalin carefully scouted either side of the path as he moved among the trees. Thorin had had reports of orcs in the area as recent as yesterday, and he’d no desire to come across a roving band of marauders. The thought of the Orcs spurred him on. She didn’t know there might be danger lurking, and – he grimaced – she had left her weapon at the training grounds. Dwalin wondered why she’d snapped at him. Normally, she’d grin at him when he corrected her, mocking defiance in her eyes, making his heart do funny things in his chest. He had wanted to apologise, fearing that he’d been too close to her in sword practice, but he’d been affected by the hair oil she used, unable to stop himself leaning against her back for a closer sniff. She was small, only just reaching his shoulder with the top of her head, but he knew that if he ever managed to catch her attention, her _heart_ , as she had his, she’d be curvy in all the right ways, fit perfectly in his arms, in his bed, in his _life_. Until then, he’d spend every day making sure she had the best chances of surviving a job that might not be as dangerous as it had once been – the settlement had fewer criminals these days and Guards were no longer walking targets.

Something snarled ahead of him. Dwalin’s heart raced. That sound… only one thing made that sound. _Wargs._ A scream rent the air.

“Arnfrith!” Dwalin bellowed, panicking. _Where had the scream come from?_

“HERE!” she screamed, and Dwalin was running again. He didn’t even remember having pulled out his axes before he watched his arm swing in front of her, lodging Keeper in the skull of the warg that jumped at her. Pulling the axe back, he met the attacking Orcs with a fierce bellow.

“DU BEKAR!” To Dwalin, battle was mostly instinct and muscle memory. His body knew how to move, how to dodge, hit, and swerve. His axes were an extension of his arms, dealing death with each slash he made. He was vaguely aware of snarling and heavy thuds, but he paid the sounds no attention, focusing on the next enemy and the next, until the small clearing counted seven dead Orcs and four dead wargs.

 

* * *

 

You were breathing hard, staring at the blood-streaked Dwalin. His mighty forearms were still taut with adrenaline, his whole body primed for war. Leaning on the war-hammer you’d liberated from him – you didn’t think he’d noticed, but the war-hammer, which was almost too heavy for you, had been the only other weapon in reach aside from your eating knife, and you had managed to bash a few Orc-skulls with it.

“Are you hurt?” you whispered, suddenly fearful. Losing your grip on the borrowed weapon, you took a step towards Dwalin, who was trembling all over. Carefully, you reached out to place a hand on his tense arm, hardly daring to touch him, but needing to check that he wasn’t badly hurt. Most of his tunic was streaked with blood, and you couldn’t tell if it was all Orc. “Dwalin?” you whispered gently. “Can you hear me?”

“Mahal…” he breathed, turning to face you. You didn’t think he saw you. The next thing you knew, you were being crushed against his broad chest, squashed against him so tightly you could hardly breathe.

“Dwalin?” you said, confused but willing to accept the offer of comfort. Dwalin might be an arse, but he made you feel _safe_.

“I could have- _you_ could have..” Dwalin babbled, still hugging you like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go. “Mahal, lass.” There was a plea in those words, though you didn’t understand it, your world narrowed to his anguished blue eyes staring at yours. Remembering yourself enough to dare wrap your arms around his shoulders and return the hug tentatively, you were unprepared for the forceful kiss he pressed against your mouth. You were equally unprepared for the surge of lust that had you instantly wrapping your legs around his hips as you returned the kiss with all the passion you could muster, clinging to his broad shoulders and whimpering against his mouth when he broke away with a loud curse.

“Dwaliin,” you moaned, pouting when he set you down, easily breaking your hold. Confused, you stared up at him, both of you breathing hard. Lust swirled in the blue depths, but it was mingled with an odd sadness you didn’t want to see.

“I apologise. I shouldn’t have done that,” Dwalin whispered hoarsely, and you watched sadness defeat lust just before he turned away from you, picking up the axes he’d dropped and cleaning them meticulously before returning them to their harness. Then he started to look around, a puzzled frown on his face as he saw the two wargs that had clearly died from a blunt object crashing into the skull rather than a sharp axe. Silently, you pointed to where you had dropped the war-hammer. You knew that if you opened your mouth, you’d regret it. You didn’t want to hear him list the reasons he didn’t want you; he might want you physically, you were rather certain of that fact, after all, but _he_ wouldn’t want a little surfacer. You feared that opening your mouth you’d make him the offer anyway, because you certainly _did_ want… but no. _Self-respect, Arnfrith, self-respect._ You repeated it like a mantra, even as you watched him collect his discarded weapon and pick up three of the wargs, leaving the smallest one for you. You scowled. You were not _weak_ , no matter what he thought! Picking up the last warg corpse – you didn’t think he’d deny you the fur from your own two kills, even if he carried it home – you stomped angrily past the stubbornly silent Fundinul.

 

* * *

 

Returning to Thorinuldûm had meant letting Dwalin take the lead again. You were silently seething as you followed him to the house of Thorin Oakenshield. Fíli opened the door. He grinned widely when he spotted you, but his expression blanked quickly when he noticed the bloodied state of yours and Dwalin’s clothes as well as the four corpses you held.

“Fetch Thorin for me, lad,” Dwalin said gruffly. Fíli nodded, following orders with no protest.

 

“Dwalin?” Thorin said as he walked through the door, staring at the gory sight of his old friend and the three wargs he’d dumped on the doorstep. Behind Dwalin stood the little recruit, who had so ensnared Dwalin’s heart that Thorin felt more than a little nauseated when Dwalin began waxing poetic about her beauty. She was pretty, he’d grant Dwalin that, silver-grey eyes and dark hair, a well-kept beard that she plaited into her hair and generous curves on her small frame.

“Killed seven Orcs and this lot,” Dwalin gestured, and Thorin suddenly realised that Recruit Arnfrith was also carrying a warg carcass. “I’d say that was all of them, but I’ll take a patrol out to check for tracks.” Thorin nodded.

“I’ll go with you,” Fíli said, appearing behind Thorin. Thorin sighed. Kíli popped up too, nodded his head and already pulling on his mail and a quiver of arrows. Dwalin nodded.

“I’ll send someone to get the beasties down to the tanner’s,” Dwalin said, and he would have left with that, if not for the dwarrowdam behind him Thorin knew, feeling a spark of amusement when she began berating his old friend.

“You’ll do no such thing to my kills, Dwalin Fundinul, you great overbearing lummox!” she shouted. “I’m not some fragile geode, I’m perfectly able to skin what I kill!” With that, she picked up the two smashed-in wargs and turned on her heel, haughtier than a born Queen and strode off, leaving the four of them gaping after her.

Thorin chuckled.

“If you don’t marry her, Dwalin, I will,” Kíli piped up, oddly serious. The axe Dwalin suddenly pointed in his direction was equally serious.

“She’s mine,” Dwalin growled. Kíli threw his hands up, backing away in surrender.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this got smutty.

Because it would have been your day off even if you hadn’t quit the Guard – the thought still made you scowl at Dwalin’s memory – Kíli showed up bright and early next morning as usual, eager to get some target practice in. He might be almost thirty years your junior and a mischief-maker to boot, but you’d found a fondness for each other as the only ones in Ered Luin who used a bow as your main weapon.

“Impressive,” Kíli whistled when you opened the door. You looked at him, not comprehending his meaning. With a sigh, the young prince gestured at the drying warg skins left on racks beside your house. You smiled.

“I’m making stock with the meat,” you said. Warg did not make good eating, the meat was stringy and oddly textured, but you could make surprisingly flavourful stock from the meat and bones with just a few herbs. It’d keep for ages in wax-sealed jars, too, so you’d have a ready supply for making stews and soups come winter.

“Really?” Kíli frowned, “Amadel tried that once, but it was horrid.”

“My adad had a trick for it,” you shrugged. Living in the middle of nowhere, you learned to get by, after all, and it had been a desperate winter the first time you tried warg-soup.

“Invite me over when you make food with it!” Kíli said, suddenly excited. You laughed fondly.

“Sure,” you promised, making him beam at you before he pulled you off towards the archery range where Álfífa would be waiting to teach her class. Neither of you really needed the class, but it was a tradition by now that you went and had a friendly competition. You almost wished that Álfífa had been your instructor in the Guard – she was Dwalin’s second in command and they traded training duties – perhaps then you’d still want to be in the Guard? You might have quit in a rage – how dare he call you not good enough, you were more than good enough! – but it didn’t make your desire to never see or speak to Dwalin again any less fervent. You firmly told yourself that it had nothing to do with the disrupted kiss whatsoever.

 

“I heard there was a small fracas yesterday, Arnfrith,” Álfífa said calmly. You envied her serenity; nothing ever seemed to fluster Álfífa or shake her calm.

“Arnfrith killed two wargs with Dwalin’s war-hammer,” Kíli piped up, proudly. You elbowed him, blushing redder than Álfífa’s hair. “They destroyed a pack of wandering orcs!”

“Shut up, Kíli!” you hissed, but Álfífa just smiled and waved you over to take your place in the line of archers. You breathed deeply, letting go of everything beside the bow and the target, feeling the longed-for serenity fill you. No matter if you were shooting targets or hunting, having the bow in your hand reminded you of quiet hunts with adad, of sitting by the fire and fletching arrows while amad knitted you a pair of new winter mittens. This was your peace.

 

* * *

 

 

That night, you set about implementing the plan you’d concocted during the day on the archery range. Feeling a little bad about not saying goodbye to Kíli in person, you agonized for an hour about what to write him, sure that Kíli would be the only one to come looking for you. When you were finished with the letter, adding the recipe for warg-stock soup on a whim, you packed in silence. You didn’t own much you’d have to leave behind, but you had asked your friend to keep safe what was left in your small house, not knowing if or when you’d return.

 

* * *

 

“Arnfrith’s gone!” Kíli shouted, running into their house and brandishing a letter at Dwalin. “She writes that she doesn’t want to stay in a place where surface-born Dwarrow are discriminated against,” he said, wincing at the thunderous rage that contorted Dwalin’s face.

“What?!” Dwalin roared. His fist slammed down on the thick oak table hard enough Kíli worried there’d be a dent. The noise brought Dís and Thorin running from other parts of the building, as Kíli sheepishly repeated his news.

“Guess you waited too long, Dwalin,” Thorin sighed, putting a hand on the warrior’s shoulder. Dwalin shook it off furiously.

“I’m going after her, bringing her home,” he growled. Kíli blocked the doorway.

“You shouldn’t, Dwalin,” he mumbled, adding something in an unintelligible whisper no one heard.

“Out of my way, lad,” Dwalin snarled, anger and fear sparking his temper. She might have died no more than two days ago, how could he let her go without at least making sure she was properly armed – preferably escorted by himself, of course.

“She doesn’t want you!” Kíli cried out, making Dwalin freeze in place. “She writes that she’s tired of you and others constantly telling her she’s not good enough… THAT’S why she left!”

“But..” Dwalin was flummoxed. He didn’t feel Dís’ hand guiding him back to his chair, falling heavily into the seat.

“I’m sorry,” Kíli whispered, feeling terrible. He had only been half-joking about marrying Arnfrith, but he’d miss her friendship deeply either way.

 

* * *

 

 

“So, you trained under Dwalin Fundinul Shumrozbid, aye?” the burly Dwarf with the bushy beard asked. You nodded. You half wondered what had possessed you to think that joining Dáin’s _army_ was a good plan, but you had tried sparring with the guard and it had quickly become clear to the Training Master that you were skilled enough to be a proper soldier. The ‘Uzkhas smiled broadly. “Well, that explains a lot,” he laughed, making a note on a piece of paper. “I know Dwalin from way back, of course, and his recruits are among our best soldiers and officers. You’ll do well with us, lass, wait and see.” You just nodded, vindictively pleased that you could use the name of the Dwarf who’d spent the most time belittling your skill to further your advancement in an area he’d obviously considered you unsuited for. “I’m Thekk, ‘Uzkhas for the third maznakkâ of Dáin Uzbad’s personal gangbuh. Welcome to the army of the Iron Hills, Arnfrith.”

* * *

 

 

Watching from the back of your ram, your bow tied to the saddle like the other 6 mounted archers in your group, the Elven army looked like they outnumbered you three to one if not more. Lord Dáin, who’d been far kinder to a nameless orphan than you’d expected, called for the charge. A lot of this part was showing off, you knew, making the pointy-ears understand that you wouldn’t back off without a fight. Erebor was your people’s legacy and you’d defend it from any invaders. Bellowing war cries, you gave Gulla his head, raising your bow high.

The ground trembled.

Staring in horror at the far slopes, watching the Orcs break through the earth like an eruption of darkness, you tightened your grip on the reins, the Elven army forgotten as you faced the new foe. Controlling Gulla with your legs, you pulled your bow, in sync with the 6 other archers in the third maznakkâ and let loose a volley in tandem with the archers in the other 9 maznakkâ. The vanguard was forming a shield wall in front of you, while the battlefield engineers were scrambling to aim the spear whirlers and the portable ballistae in the direction of this new enemy. Half a war-cry drifted through the air from the mountain; turning your head, you could barely make out dark hair that could only be Kíli’s. You chuckled grimly. This wasn’t the way you’d wanted to meet your friend again after five years absence. Firing again and again, suddenly with aid from the Elven archers, you plucked off Orc after Orc, not even caring to watch your shot land before firing the next.

 

A roar sounded, a horn being blown with power that could only come from a Dwarf’s lungs. A bell tolled, which was a bit peculiar, but you had little time to care about it, letting your mount have its head as it charged the orcs now in range of his deadly horns.

“DU BEKAR! BARUK KHAZÂD!” you heard, and for a brief moment you were back in a clearing in a mountain forest five years ago, hearing that same voice and calling it safety. You scowled, stabbing your long sword into the throat of a nearby orc. Now was not the time to be thinking about Dwalin… or that blasted kiss that still haunted your dreams from time to time. Whirling around, perfectly in tune with Gulla as you worked together to defend each other, you dealt death to any enemy daft enough to get in range. “KHAZÂD AI-MENU!!”

“Retreat!!” Thekk shouted, but you had no time to follow him back to the line, the Orcs coming at you thick and fast. For the first time in five years, you were afraid that you were staring at oncoming death. With a snarl, you threw yourself into the struggle to live, not willing to give the Orcs the satisfaction and hoping you might buy young Hrefn time to get back to the line while you held them off. He shouldn’t have been in your maznakkâ, really, he was not even of age, but you’d needed a 7th archer and Hrefn was the best among the younger recruits. “ARNFRITH, GET YOUR BONY ARSE BACK HERE!” You wanted to laugh. Thekk had taken you under his wing, almost a pseudo-parent ever since you’d arrived in the Iron Hills and you knew he wouldn’t forgive you for dying here.

“Arnfrith!!” Another voice screamed. Your swing faltered in surprise, hearing a voice you’d not heard in so long, _his_ voice. And then Dwalin was there, having apparently stolen one of the ballistic wagons and shooting as though he’d been born to do so. His aim was shoddy at best, you thought, slightly smug, but the constant rate of fire meant accuracy only mattered in the Trials. You’d won in a wagon just like it for the last four years. Gulla headbutted another orc and finally you had time to draw a proper breath, once more aware of more than your immediate surroundings. You’d taken a hit to the head, you realised, feeling your helmet pressing uncomfortably against your skull. Taking it off, you inspected the damage. A sizable dent met your eyes, but you simply tossed the armour away, launching yourself from Gulla’s saddle and pushing Dwalin away from the Double Curve Bolter.

“I’ll do that, you fire!” you snapped, amazed that Dwalin actually listened. “Kíli!” you exclaimed next, finally recognizing his dark hair.

“Fancy meeting you here,” he replied, a cheeky smile on his face.

“Gulla, Gulla, **Innikh**!” you cried, watching as your ram turned with a snort, galloping back towards the Mountain, kicking a few Orcs on his way for good measure. You didn’t know the names of the rams that pulled the B-Wag, but they’d know the general commands. “ **Ihkirruki!** ” you barked, and the rams obeyed, putting on a burst of speed as you skilfully aimed the Bolter at the oncoming foes. “Where are we going?” you asked, your voice tight.

“Ravenhill!” Someone shouted, trying to be heard over the noise of the hooves on the frozen river. You nodded.

“ **Naibnisi**!” you commanded. In the front of the B-Wag, you recognized the white hair of Balin, whose hands were tight on the reins though he seemed relieved to give command of the beasts over to your voice. The rams turned, dragging you up a small incline. “ **I’khizi**!” you shouted, making the wagon come to a halt as you swivelled the Bolter around. “Ravenhill is behind us. I’ll keep them from following you,” you bit out between clenched teeth. Fíli was the first to jump from the wagon. Kíli followed him, a fond squeeze to your shoulder that you returned with a smile.

“Arnfrith,” Dwalin said, plaintive. Surprise made you look at him questioningly. “Please don’t hate me for trying to keep you safe,” he whispered, and suddenly you found yourself in the exact same position you’d been in five years ago. Only this time, the kiss had a hard edge of desperation, and ended far too quickly for your taste, staring up at blue eyes once again. You growled.

“We WILL talk about this, later,” you snarled, pulling him back to your lips for one more kiss, your hand fisted in the harness that crossed his chest. When you let him go this time, he grinned boyishly at you before jumping from the wagon and following the princes up the path. Balin took his place.

“You’d better not hurt him again,” he said placidly, before he began winding the crank that fired the arrows once more. You gaped silently. Dwalin wasn’t the one who’d been hurt the last time! With a scowl, you returned your attention to your task, taking out your rage and frustration on the Orcs that seemed almost innumerable.

 

* * *

 

 

You woke up with no memory of having gone to bed. The room was dark, only a single candle burning. You blinked sleepily. Feeling surprisingly well, if a bit stiff, you slowly got to your feet. Your armour was gone, and you were dressed in a shift, but the lack of proper hurts told you that you hadn’t been wounded. Even the bump to the head you’d taken seemed to have healed. A chair creaked.

“Dwalin?” you asked, recognizing the shiny dome of his head. “What are you doing here?” You wrapped the fur blanket closer around yourself, moving toward the chair that held your dwarf – yes, _yours_ , you weren’t about to let those kisses be forgotten too.

“Arnfrith?” Dwalin mumbled sleepily. You smiled, reaching out to cup his face.

“Hey, you,” you whispered. Before you’d realised he was reaching for you, you found yourself seated on his lap, straddling his strong thighs as he crushed you against his chest. Dwalin’s low sobs echoed in the darkness. You hummed soothingly, pressing kisses against his bearded jaw as you wrapped your arms around shoulders that were just as wide as you remembered. His lips found yours, in the softest of kisses as his large hands rubbed your back, making you moan and arch against him. Dwalin chuckled. You swallowed the sound as the kiss grew more passionate. You hadn’t remembered it being this good, but you couldn’t hold back a moan when his thick fingers squeezed your arse firmly.

“Arnfrith,” Dwalin nipped at your lips. Your eyes were growing accustomed to the darkness, making you able to see the whirl of emotion in his eyes. Pulling away slightly, you pressed a kiss to his nose.

“Yes?” You didn’t think he was entirely aware of the way he was moving your hips, but it felt so _good_ to be pressed tight against him that you hoped he’d continue forever.

“Marry me.” You froze. Dwalin bit his lip, staring down at your face as that sadness began to seep into his eyes once more with your silence.

“But…” you tried to object, but he simply shook his head.

“Marry me,” he said, the words nearly a demand.

“You don’t want me,” you protested sadly, sighing as you prepared to move off him. Dwalin made a strangled sound of incredulity.

“I want you!” he nearly shouted. “Mahal wept, lass, I just asked you to be my Lady-wife!” You shook your head dumbly; he couldn’t mean it, _didn’t_ mean it? “I want you now, just as I wanted you five years ago when you broke my heart running away, as I wanted you _six_ years ago when you joined my class! I WANT you!” he almost roared the last part, claiming your mouth again as he pressed you hard against the evidence of his truth. For a long moment you lost yourself in his kiss; slowly beginning to believe. Those feelings your been denying for long years burst free in your chest, melting your resistance from the inside. Dwalin kissed you again.

“Dwaliiiiin,” you moaned, a needy sound you’d never uttered before. Biting his lip and snaking your tongue into his mouth when he gasped in surprise, you tightened your grip on his tunic. Pressing yourself harder against him, you rubbed yourself against the hard proof of his arousal. “Ask me,” you begged, feeling desperate to hear him again; convince yourself it wasn’t a dream. One of his hands found its way beneath your shift, the other tearing the loose fabric off your shoulder and baring your breast to his gaze.

“Marry me,” he begged, hoarsely, making you cry out in frustration when he simply breathed across your heated flesh.

“Yes, yes, Dwalin,” you moaned, one hand moving to grip the hair at the back of his head and guide his mouth where you wanted it. The soft beard on his chin stroked your sensitive flesh as he bent his head to draw your nipple into his mouth, his hands kneading your arse. “Yes!” you cried, only to moan it over and over as he systematically began to undo you.

“Say my name,” he demanded in a growl that reverberated through your bones as he increased the pressure against your core, rubbing rhythmically against him. You moaned. As your head fell forward, you turned slightly, catching his ear with your mouth.

“Dwaaaliin,” you moaned breathily, running your tongue along the shell and tugging on the cuffs with your lips. Your fingers travelled down his broad chest, undoing the laces at his throat. “Off!” you demanded, slightly petulant. With a screech of tortured fabric, Dwalin ripped off his tunic, letting your fingers dance across his naked skin, tracing the patterns of his tattoos. Trailing your fingers down to tug innefectually at his waistband, you smiled against his neck, suckling at his pulse to make him jump when you wrapped your hand around him.

“Mahal, lass,” he groaned, tilting his head to give you more room. Patience worn thin, he ripped your shift apart too, leaving the linen to float gently to the ground beside the chair. You shuddered, the warmth of his hands on your arse almost sensory overload. Keening into his skin, you panted harshly, chasing that peak you could feel coming with the force of an avalanche. Dwalin caught your mouth once more, a breathless kiss filled with tongue and teeth, and suddenly you exploded in pleasure.

 

When you returned to your body, Dwalin was stroking along your back, still hard and throbbing beneath you. Pressing kisses against your tangled hair, his low chuckle rumbled through his chest when you sighed happily, leaning against his solid bulk.

“Bed, Dwalin,” you demanded, still floating blissfully. With little apparent effort, he picked you up, and once again you wrapped your legs around his waist. Sliding your arms around his neck, you pulled him down for another kiss, playfully duelling his tongue with your own. Dwalin groaned, thrusting lightly against you with each step.

“I want to have you like this, my Arnfrith,” he whispered, an admission, “just like this, against a pine tree with the thrill of battle setting my blood afire.” You could only moan in reply as you tightened your legs, rubbing shamelessly against him.

“I would have had you,” you admitted, hiding a blush against his bare shoulder. Your tongue darted out to taste his skin, “five years ago, I would have had you in that forest.” You nipped his shoulder, hard enough to be felt, though not to bruise. Dwalin moaned, his arms firmly around you.

“Please, amrâlimê, don’t say things like that if you want this to last,” he begged. You smirked, running one hand lightly down his chest until you could toy with the laces on his breeches.

“Did you want that, Dwalin?” you whispered, teasing, “want to lay me down next to our slain enemies and have your wicked way with me?” He shuddered in response and suddenly you found yourself bouncing on the mattress where he’d thrown you. Dwalin grinned darkly down at you, the sight making you shiver. Slowly, he untied his breeches, kicking off his boots and drawing the fabric down his powerful legs. Your mouth watered, staring at the corded muscles and the very obvious picture of arousal he presented.

“You’re a wee minx,” he claimed, his accent notably thicker. It did funny things to your insides, listening to his voice that low and husky. “Like tha’, is it, my wee lassie,” he crooned, moving to hover just above you on the bed. “Give me your pleasure, lass,” he commanded. You nodded fervently, moaning lightly when you felt him press against you, hard and wanting. Curling your hands around strong shoulders, you pulled him down on top of you for another kiss, sighing deeply into his mouth. Dwalin pulled your unresisting leg up, hitching it over his hip as he pressed against you, drawing back and pressing forth again without actually going where you _needed_ him. You growled.

“Dwalin!” you pouted, trying to move him with the leg wrapped around his hip. “Come to me,” you whispered, enjoying the sound of his deep moan in your ear.

“Give me your heart,” he said, but you just nodded at the demand. One of his arms was holding his weight slightly off you, giving him space to stare down at your face. You smiled wickedly.

“Give me yours,” you demanded in return, making him laugh. Your chuckle turned into a broken moan when he surged forwards, trapping you against the mattress with his bulk in the best way. Bucking up to meet his every thrust was _bliss_. You weren’t aware of the way you moaned his name, the way he cursed you for being so tight he was ready to lose it already. Instead, you simply claimed his mouth in a kiss of pure passion, scoring your nails down his back at a particularly pleasurable move. Dwalin groaned. You distantly realised that he liked a lick of pain and did it again. Dwalin shuddered above you, but regained his iron self-control with a smirk you didn’t see.

“You’re mine,” he growled, nipping at your ear.

“Yours,” you agreed, nodding breathlessly as his clever hands roamed your responsive flesh, “all yours, my Dwalin, oh, Maker, yes!” you screeched, thrashing beneath his touch. “Please, amrâlimê,” you begged, “my Dwalin…” the rest of your words were lost in bliss. Dwalin smirked, feeling you shatter around him.

“Mine!” he roared, finding his own completion.


End file.
